


Admirable

by cuddlesome



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Beaches, Bigotry & Prejudice Against Elves, Canon-Typical Violence, Fictional Religion & Theology, Flowers, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Male Friendship, Monsters, Siegfried is shaped like a friend, Slice of Life, a Siegfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesome/pseuds/cuddlesome
Summary: Geralt is a good person with a soft heart. Siegfried hopes he realizes it someday.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Zygfryd z Denesle | Siegfried of Denesle
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Admirable

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wasn't going to let myself get attached enough to any Witcher characters to write fanfic because I'm trying to focus on my original fiction projects right now but Ziggy came and messed that up. I knew from the second that I met him he was going to be my favorite.

The dike cleared of most people in anticipation of the monsters that would appear once the sun sank out of sight. For now, though, bathed in sunset’s glow, the area remained safe.

Siegfried came there in order to get a brief respite from his duties. Training his men all day and working on reports well into the night left little time to pray. He could have done it at his post, but he wanted to stretch his legs. Besides, seeing the ocean and sky aflame with bold oranges and reds renewed his faith like nothing else. The sight mesmerized him as he walked out of the city walls. 

He had to limp thanks to the stiffness in his leg that had gotten stabbed with an echinops thorn. Although the poison had been thoroughly flushed out by one of the Order’s combat medics, the wound caused by the swamp creature still needed time to heal. But he’d be damned if he would let himself become bedridden over it. 

As he reached the beach, he smelled smoke in the air. Someone must have left the fire burning in the pit on the beach. As much as he believed in the Eternal Fire, having a literal fire burning unchecked was simply unsafe. One gust of wind in the wrong direction and the whole dike would be ablaze. He ought to go stamp it out. 

Siegfried rounded a cluster of barrels and nearly tripped over someone kneeling on the ground before the fire. Even from behind, he recognized the man at once thanks to his hair and the pair of swords strapped to his back.

He clutched a hand over his heart. “Geralt!”

“Greetings, Siegfried.” Geralt half-turned and dipped his head, but didn’t rise from his knees. 

Geralt’s hair appeared particularly soft and snowy that day instead of the sad dishrag look he sported in the swamp. His leather armor shone and had a scent to it that indicated he had it treated recently. He even shaved. The seconds tick by as he takes in a more manicured Geralt. Not for the first time he wishes that he would agree to join the Order. With a less scruffy appearance and perhaps a dye job he could easily fit in with the knights. 

“My apologies,” Siegfried said, “I didn’t see you.”

“No need to apologize. It takes more than a little kick to hurt me.” 

Involuntarily, Siegfried found his gaze drawn to the scar from the cut, by a claw, no doubt, that had almost robbed Geralt of his eye. He could only imagine how much worse he had suffered. It made Siegfried’s own battle scars from a long list of leg wounds seem like stubbed toes by comparison.

Now that he was closer, Siegfried distinguished the noxious smell of herbs simmering in a small pot over the fire from the smoke. A vial sat nearby, waiting to house the potion.

“I was just about to meditate. Helps kill time while I’m waiting for this to brew,” Geralt explained. “The fire helps me focus.”

“Further apologies for interrupting. Should I—?”

“You can stay, if you like. Having a conversation is more entertaining than falling into a trance.”

Siegfried sat beside him and stretched his wounded leg out. He always wanted to take up the opportunity to spend time with his comrade and friend. The Eternal Fire must have shown on them that day to allow them to meet like this, outside of a battle for once.

They made small talk about recent happenings in Vizima, discussed the gruesome trophy currently hanging on Geralt’s thigh (a fleder’s head, fangs covered in dry blood; it didn’t stink as much as the potion), and Siegfried’s new uniform. He had trouble navigating the various spikes on his armor at first but was getting the hang of it.

At one point, Siegfried asked after Shani and was surprised to hear that they’d had something of a falling out.

“Perhaps I could speak with her for you, let her know you’re sorry,” he said.

At once, he floundered. The medic seemed like a lovely woman, but he’d just met her the one time. It was hardly appropriate for him to approach her on Geralt’s behalf. He’d blurted the offer on impulse if only in the hopes of getting rid of the sadness on his face.

Geralt shook his head. “I think the best thing to do is just leave her be for a while.”

They stayed off of the subject of the nonhumans. Geralt always turned a bit grim when Siegfried proclaimed his particular hatred for elves. As a technical nonhuman himself, he supposed that his friend thought that his judgment of the terrorists reflected on him. 

After some time, they lapsed into silence. Siegfried looked at Geralt. The warmth of the sunset and the firelight couldn’t seem to chase away the near-ghostly paleness in his face. In one of his men he might see that as a sign of sickliness, but he witnessed his strength firsthand.

The monster slayer could doubtless crush his skull with his bare hands. Or a spell. Or simply a look. But he wouldn’t.

Code against killing (most) humans aside (the criminal scum in Salamandra were almost as bad as the elves), Geralt had a paradoxical gentleness to him. 

Case in point, Siegfried witnessed him picking herbs for potions in the hospital garden daily. On one occasion Geralt seemed lost in thought as he crouched next to a patch of white myrtle. He twirled a blossom between his big, scarred fingers. His animal eyes fell half-shut in contemplation. Then with all the delicacy of a schoolgirl he slipped the flower into his satchel before wandering over to the wizened old gardener to chat with him.

Did the infamous witcher enjoy flowers beyond the utilitarian sense? What was his opinion on roses..?

Geralt tilted his head. “What are you thinking?”

Belatedly, Siegfried realized he had been staring. He jerked his head forward to look at the fire.

“Nothing.”

“Anyone ever told you you’re a really bad liar?”

“Frequently.” Siegfried sighed and itched the back of his head—he would need to have his hair cut again soon, it was beginning to grow out. “You are unusual, Geralt.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Siegfried leaned toward him, aggravating his leg further but uncaring. “I don’t mean because of the mutations. Everyone’s convinced you live to kill. Before I met you, I admit that I believed that about witchers. But it isn’t true. You’re the sort of person who would go into a crypt to get a child’s doll back from monsters if she asked it of you.”

“Mmhm,” said Geralt. “Provided there’s gold involved.”

“Ha! So you say. When it comes down to it, I have faith you’ll always do the right thing, gold or no gold.”

Geralt hummed, dubious. “You’ve got more faith than most people, Siegfried.”

Dusk melted into night without Siegfried noticing until he heard the telltale splash and screeches of drowners.

Geralt poured the potion into its vial, corked it, and slid it into a compartment in his jerkin. Then in a fluid motion he stood and drew his silver sword.

Less fluidly thanks to his wound, Siegfried got to his feet and unsheathed his own sword, aware that it wouldn’t be as effective against the monsters but still prepared to use it. After all, beating the head of a drowner in with any sort of sword would do the trick after a while. His experience in the sewers spoke to that. 

“I shall assist you,” he declared.

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“I insist.”

“Siegfried, I can smell that leg wound. It smells as fresh as when you got it, doubtless because you keep reopening it doing shit like this.”

Drat. He’d forgotten about Geralt’s enhanced senses.

“Just sit back and watch,” Geralt continued. “It’ll give you a chance to see more of a witcher in action and shouldn’t take long.”

Before Siegfried could protest, Geralt dove into the fray, slaughtering the drowners effortlessly. With a grunt of pain, Siegfried sank back down to the sand to watch the witcher work. Geralt’s fighting style was unusual, less like swordfighting and more like dancing. Unencumbered by heavy armor, he tore from one opponent to the next in fluid movements. Even the gruesome nature of the fight couldn’t take away from Geralt’s grandeur.

Siegfried knew that Geralt didn’t see himself in the most positive light. Having the world beat him down with insults and abuse and worse while still taking advantage of him would do that. Still, Siegfried hoped that in some small way he could help Geralt to see him the way that he did. In his way, he was more knightly than half of the Order.

He only had that further confirmed to him when Geralt, reeking of monster blood, held out a hand to help him up and let him rest his weight on him as he walked him back to his quarters.


End file.
